


Never Con a Con

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, general silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 12:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15315855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Van Clemmons has a problem. It wears a Members Only jacket and a fake moustache, and sees blackmail as a first resort. Only Veronica Mars can save him.





	Never Con a Con

**Author's Note:**

> This story was initially posted on VMHQ as a birthday gift for the lovely cainc3. :-)

Neptune High Vice-Principal Van Clemmons is slumped in his ergonomic chair, calculating days left till retirement while adding notes to the Echolls and Navarro files, when his secretary buzzes.

Sighing, he sets aside his pen. “I’m on my planning period, Agnes. You know this is when I re-caffeinate.”

“I understand, sir.” Agnes sounds harried. Then again, she’s underpaid, overworked, and has a son who makes Norris Clayton seem Zen. “But you’ve got a visitor who’s not a student, parent or teacher…and he’s asking to chaperone a field trip.”

Van closes his eyes for a brief moment; wonders if there’s still Excedrin in his desk drawer. “Send him in,” he says. “And be on standby to phone the authorities. We don’t want a repeat of the Madison Sinclair Pie Booth stalker fiasco.”

It takes him a moment to place the man who saunters through the door, carrying a Saran-wrapped paper plate and smiling unctuously from beneath a mustache. But after mentally superimposing feathered hair and a Night Ranger t-shirt, he realizes it’s Vinnie Van Lowe. Time has added weight, if not gravitas, to the individual notable for his burnt-orange Trans-Am and long-standing betting ring under the bleachers. But the insincere-yet-crafty mien hasn’t changed. He even seems to be wearing the same coat.

“Mr. Van Lowe.” Van tries to remember what happened to Vinnie after graduation. He has a vague recollection of parole, followed by a stint in the Army in lieu of jail. “May I ask how you made it onto school premises without a pass?”

“Van Clemmons!” Vinnie says, instead of explaining, and looks around the humble office with fake awe. “Vice Principal, wow! Come up in the world, haven’t you, since your days teaching science to reprobates like myself?”

Seating himself in the guest chair, Vinnie deposits his plate on the desk with a pat. “Brought a present for you, Van, in honor of the first day of spring—fresh-baked cookies, hot from my mother’s kitchen. Nothing like the food mama used to make, am I right?”

Silently, Van sets the offering aside; he’ll have Agnes dispose of it later. God knows what kind of cookies a woman who produced Vinnie would bake. The temptation to include arsenic might overwhelm good sense.

“Mr. Van Lowe,” he says. “Chaperones are chosen from a pool of parents and teachers, for legal reasons. And background checks are required for adults who work with students. I’m not familiar with your activities since graduation, but somehow I’m skeptical you’d pass.”

Vinnie picks up a stapler and begins to fiddle, which sends Van, a veteran of Veronica Mars, into high alert. “Aw, I only said that so you wouldn’t blow me off in favor of paperwork.” He tries to peek at the files on the desk, and Van covers both names with his palms. “Truth be told, I’m not exactly the mentor type.”

Color me shocked, Van thinks. “My planning period is over in seven minutes,” he says. “Care to share what you lied your way in here to discuss?”

“The National Association of Secondary School Principals.” Vinnie abandons the stapler and picks up a paperclip holder, turning it upside down to test the magnetized rim. “More specifically, their annual awards dinner. I understand you’re invited, whereas tragically, I am not, and the event isn’t open to the public. I’d like to attend as your plus one.”

This statement raises brows. Due to the lack of Neptune High trophies (and the identity of Man of the Year) Van’s been mulling excuses to skip the event that a group of school administrators would buy. “My spare tickets are for my beloved, patient wife, my son Vincent, and his date…assuming he can get one. I have no intention of handing them out like Halloween candy to disreputable middle-aged ne’er-do-wells.”

“After I brought you cookies?” Vinnie presses a hand to his heart. “Van, I’m offended and appalled. Surely there’s some way I could sweeten the pot?”

“Mr. Van Lowe, cut the bull.” Van employs his sternest tone. “If you imagine I’m inviting a tabloid reporter, or grifter, or whatever it is you’ve become, to a benign event populated by my peers? You’re sorely mistaken.”

“Aw, you have standards. That’s a shame.” Vinnie sighs, theatrical, and begins twirling Van’s nameplate. “Well, let it be noted for the record, I TRIED the carrot first. Here’s the nitty-gritty, VP Clemmons—I’ve recently learned, to my shock and horror, that some bad apples are running drugs through your school cafeteria. As a civic-minded person, I can’t turn a blind eye. Now, if you were to perform the simple favor I ask, I could gather evidence on the sly, clean this mess up quietly. If not…my only option is to seek help from the press.”

Van’s fingers clench atop Echolls’ and Navarro’s fat files. There have been four arrests for possession just off-campus in the last month. If what Van Lowe says is true, and the drugs in question were sold on his watch? Van can kiss his chances of winning next year’s trophy goodbye.

And he’s schemed for far too long to let some third-rate smarmy blackmailer derail his career.

“I could pose as a photographer,” Vinnie adds oh-so-casually, no doubt sensing weakness. “Doing a human interest piece on you for the local paper. Nobody needs to think we’re pals.”

Van fixes Vinnie with his most forbidding stare, and reminds himself to buy Tums on the way home. Vinnie gazes expectantly back, carefully straightening Van’s nameplate.

“Fine,” Van says eventually, with just a hint of surliness. “I’m sure my son, at least, would rather lurk in the basement with his HAM radio than put on a suit. Meet me in the Neptune Grand parking garage at seven and I’ll hand over the ticket.”

“Mr. Clemmons, it’s been a pleasure doing business.” Vinnie gives a convivial nod as he rises to go. “Your dedication to the welfare of Neptune’s youth is inspiring.”

He saunters nastily out; Van grabs the stapler and inspects it for bugs. Poor Miss James will never be the same, since learning six months of therapy-slash-research were recorded. Especially because her publisher subsequently scotched her book deal.

The stapler looks clean, as do all other objects Vinnie fondled, but Van knows better than to relax. He decides in this instance, Veronica Mars might actually be an asset. ‘It takes one to know one’ has proved an effective philosophy, when investigating Echolls’ and Navarro’s misdeeds. And even if she’s never crossed paths with Van Lowe, she’ll surely dig up dirt on him if bribed.

**XXXXX**

V’s in newspaper class when the office summons comes, via loudspeaker; close enough to watch Logan in her peripheral vision, far enough he won’t presume she cares. She’s doodling determinedly on her book cover in lieu of taking notes, ignoring Mr. Kiss-and-Play-Dumb’s brooding stare.

She’s unsurprised when her name is called—Clemmons no doubt noticed the gym key’s missing—but frowns in seeming puzzlement anyway. Gathering her books, she bustles out in a concerned-good-girl flurry, making sure not to look at Logan once.

“You rang?” she asks, when admitted to the inner sanctum, setting her books neatly on a desk corner and folding her hands in her lap. “Got another parrot for me to rescue, or do you just enjoy our breezy repartee?”

“Neither.” Clemmons settles back with a pen between his hands and fixes her with his lugubrious stare. “I was wondering whether, during your Mars Investigations travels, you’ve ever crossed paths with Vinnie Van Lowe?”

Veronica laughs. “Why, did he ooze his way into your orbit?” she asks. “Ten bucks says he’s up to something tawdry.”

“It’s quite possible you’re right.” Clemmons turns the pencil end-out and drums pensively on his blotter. “He’s asked to attend an educators-only event, for reasons which currently elude me. Also he brought cookies, and showed inordinate interest in my office supplies.”

“Uh-oh.” Veronica casts a concerned look at the cookie plate, then deftly pries open the stapler. “I definitely wouldn’t eat those, he might have baked in bugs. The stapler’s clean. What else in the office did he touch?”

Clemmons encompasses the desk’s surface with a wave, dumps the cookie plate out the window while she conducts her search. When he sits back down, she says, “I’d need to sweep to make sure, but everything looks kosher. If you’ve had your locks changed recently, though, or called an exterminator, he might have showed up today to take bugs OUT.”

“There WAS a mold remediation team last week, doing assessments,” Clemmons muses. “Needless to say, the school’s clean, as mandated by the district.”

“Of course,” Veronica soothes. “If you’d like me to learn what he’s up to, I could use some excused absences. And a parking space far from the 09’er portion of the lot.”

“In general, I frown on extra-curricular mingling with students.” Clemmons folds his hands, considering. “If, however, you and Mr. Fennel were to attend tonight’s event in support of Neptune High, you’d hardly be the only teens present.”

“The plot thickens!” she exclaims, cheerfully because he didn’t say no. “To what event are you referring, specifically? And why would I bring Wallace?”

“The winner of this year’s NASSP Man of the Year award is the Vice-Principal of Pan High,” Clemmons says, with a distinct edge. “Until recently he was the basketball coach; notable members of his championship team will be admitted, in order to make a short presentation.”

“Mike Caputo!” Veronica whistles. “Guess the board was impressed with the way he turned their sports program AND academic scores around!”

“Indeed,” Clemmons drawls, and there’s no missing the venom. “The scuttlebutt in academic circles is, he’s about to be promoted to Principal, so this event will be overrun with media… relatively speaking. I doubt Van Lowe could get a press pass.”

“Well, we can’t let him sleaze his way into mischief via you,” Veronica decides. “If you’re fired for abetting, who’ll be willing to make deals when I get in trouble? Now, where should I acquire tickets? And how would you prefer we dress?”

“Perhaps a skirt or slacks,” Clemmons says. “And shoes other than motorcycle boots.  Mr. Fennel may wear his letter jacket over a shirt and tie. The event begins in the Neptune Grand ballroom at seven–I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby at 6:30 sharp.”

“Five excused absence slips?” she bargains, although she’s curious enough now to work this case for free. “Parking space bearing my name?”

“Four,” Clemmons counters, stone-faced. “And provided you still have straight A’s, I’ll work out a deal vis-a-vis parking with the Honors Society.”

“Mr. Clemmons, you can summon my help via loudspeaker any time.” She gathers her books as he locates an admissions pad, hastily scrawls signatures. “We’ll be at the Grand by 6:30 with bells on.”

Accepting her spoils, she hurries from the office, checking her watch to see if she’s got time to buy candy. Skids to a halt as Logan uncoils from a wall-lean and shifts to block her path.

“Oooh, signed-but-blank attendance slips.” He touches the stack with a fingertip, eyebrows raised. “Looks like you’re less in trouble today, and more…in demand.”

“Was that innuendo?” She stands her ground as he lounges closer. “Because if so, ew. Now, did you want something, or are you just brushing up on your lurking skills?”

“I could help,” he offers, planting a shoulder on a nearby doorframe. “With whatever case Clemmons has you working. Especially if it gets me out of fourth-period biology, and the test for which I haven’t studied.”

“Sorry.” She fake-pouts, not sorry. “The investigation’s scheduled for after school. And you wouldn’t be nearly as helpful in this particular situation as Wallace.”

“You wound me,” he retorts, clearly not wounded. “It’s my belief there are MANY situations in which you’d FAR prefer my help to Wallace’s.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she snaps. Because if he’s going to run around kissing people back and then pretend he didn’t, he’s not allowed to flirt. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a Mounds in the candy machine, frantically calling my name. And you know what happens to those who block my access to food.”

She marches past, jaw determinedly clenched, and pretends not to notice the way he stares. Furiously dials Wallace, as soon as she’s around the corner.

“Hey there, buddy,” V says in her most coaxing tone, when he answers the phone with a sigh. “I’ll bet your plans for this evening are really boring. And you’d love to cancel them to help your BFF with a case, because that’s the kind of stand-up guy you are.”

“Veronica, I’ve got a calculus test tomorrow,” he says, while Darryl yells along with the Animaniacs theme in the background. “And you know how I feel about calculus at the best of times. Which tonight isn’t, ‘cause SOMEONE in this house won’t quit SINGING.”

“I could tutor you?” she suggests, without much hope, plugging enough coins into the machine for two Mounds, because it feels like a binge-on-candy kind of evening.  “Bet I could explain Taylor’s expansion in five minutes flat, and then you could help me with this itsy-bitsy case that falls squarely in your field of expertise.”

“Do you know what my mother will do to me if I fail?” Wallace asks, exasperated. “No you don’t, because you never fail, and your Dad never punishes you, anyway. Go call Mac or Weevil instead. Bet you ten bucks neither of THEM is studying tonight.”

“Fine,” Veronica says. “But next time I ask for a student file, I hope you remember this moment and realize you owe me.”

“I swear I’m quitting office aide senior year,” Wallace says. Then shouts, “TURN THAT THING DOWN OR I’M GONNA TAKE YOUR TRANSFORMERS TO GOODWILL,” and hangs up.

“Ugh.” Veronica pockets her phone, because there goes her Van Lowe buffer; morosely retrieves her Mounds from the machine. Turns, unwrapping, and smacks squarely into Logan’s chest, smearing a streak of chocolate across the orange.

“I couldn’t help but overhear.” He manages to plant his hand on the wall and pose nonchalantly, despite the chocolate and this blatant falsehood. “Sounds like somebody needs rescuing, and there aren’t any NOBLE saviors available.”

“All right, you win.” She tries not to stare as he swipes a finger through the candy smear and sucks it provocatively clean. “But only because otherwise, I’d have to spend the evening alone with VINNIE. Meet me in the Neptune Grand lobby at exactly 6:25 PM…and find some clean clothes in the interim.”

He smiles, the slow-growing, coaxing smile that makes everyone do his bidding. She shoves half a Mounds into her mouth and furiously chews as she stalks off, so she won’t have to talk to him anymore.

Because he does not get to smile at her like that FOR ANY REASON, PERIOD. She put on red lipstick and stared right AT him in journalism class, for God’s sake. She could not have sent a clearer signal. And he looked AWAY!

Kissing mortal enemies after they beat up crooked ATF agents is going on Veronica’s Never Again list. The aftermath involves nothing but downsides.

**XXXXX**

“Seriously?” is Veronica’s first word, four-and-a-half hours later, when she walks into the Neptune Grand lobby and Logan uncoils from the hospitality couch to greet her. “THIS is what you wear to meet every high school administrator in the state?”

He hastily shifts attention from her legs in heels to his sweater; runs a hand, faintly defensive, down the front. It seems perfectly respectable to him—forest-green cashmere, and snug enough to invite reaction, even from, say, SOMEONE with an impenetrable poker face. “In my defense,” he says, going for dry, and keeping his gaze carefully off her red-wrap-dress cleavage, “I wasn’t told that’s what we’d be doing. You just said, wear clean clothes for a case…so I chose something warm and dark, in case there was outdoor sneaking.”

“Serves you right for demanding I bring you along,” she mutters, but she’s covertly eyeing his abs so he doesn’t take it personally. “Maybe if you publicly embarrass Clemmons, he’ll quit kissing your famous-by-association ass.” She fake-gasps and covers her mouth. “Ooh, you might even have to give up your lunch flask!”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” He smiles down at her in spite of himself, because she really is adorable when she mocks him. “Clemmons has eyes on the prize, the prize being celebrity-sized donations to a floundering sports program. And Dad knows the drill…bad PR gets hushed up, large checks are written. Everyone wins.”

“Ah, the American Dream,” a smarmy voice chimes in behind him. Logan frowns at Veronica’s insta-scowl and turns to see a pomaded and pointy-nosed social reject approaching, clad in a Men’s Wearhouse suit. He’s carrying a camera and wearing a Neptune Register ID, but the oily demeanor is less reporter, more ex-con. “Long may those amber waves wave. Fancy meeting you here, VMars. I figured, given your extracurricular activities, this’d be a gathering you’d want to avoid.”

Logan arches an amused brow, but V just fixates on the interloper and squares up. “What’s YOUR business here, Vinnie? No, wait, let me guess…brushing up on your photography skills?” She tugs contemptuously at the camera strap. “I’d recommend a nice nature trail instead.”

“Ah, but it’s HUMAN nature that interests me this evening.” The dude winks, and Logan narrows his eyes; he can count acquaintances who AREN’T terrified of Veronica on one hand. “You lovebirds have a good time inside. Maybe stay away from the open bar, though—this is not the place or time to whip out fake ID’s.”

Vinnie, whoever he may be, saunters off whistling. Veronica shakes herself like an angry terrier to cope with clear revulsion. “God, every time I talk to him I feel like I should shower,” she mutters. “Word of advice, he’s the kind of PI who DOESN’T have ethics. If you ever spot him peeping in your windows, flush the evidence and prepare to pay big.”

“All right, Mars, consider my curiosity piqued,” Logan begins…then trails off, attention snagged by Clemmons’ entrance. He’s escorting a helmet-haired brunette with a disturbing resemblance to Butters, and looks far too hangdog to be attending this party by choice. The principal hands his wife a ticket and sends her into the reception hall solo, after a murmured aside. Then hastily approaches, employing the head-tilt that signifies ‘concern’.

“Miss Mars….and Mr. Echolls. This is a surprise.” Not a pleasant one, sounds like, and Clemmons turns to V for explanation. “I thought we agreed you’d be escorted by Mr. Fennel.”

She shrugs, breezily, as if Logan’s presence was her idea and she couldn’t have planned better. “Wallace couldn’t make it, he has a test. Besides, Logan can hobnob better with the boosters. He sees them all the time at his mom’s numerous parties.”

Logan suppresses a groan. He was hoping his role tonight would involve subduing criminals, since last week that earned him gratitude. He still feels faintly guilty about the whole ‘macking-on-his-dead-girlfriend’s-BFF’ thing; but Veronica walked around in a micro-mini all day, and now she’s wearing four-inch heels and some perfume that scrambles his brain. So he composes his face into a mask of can-do competence, sure any remaining ethics will dissolve if he gets to kiss her again.

Clemmons has known Logan for three years now, so he’s not fooled, but he gives a brief, exasperated nod. “Fine, here’s your ticket, it allows for a plus-one. Please, try to stay inconspicuous. And remember, that parking space depends on you finding the information I need.”

Veronica salutes, and Logan murmurs as Clemmons hurries off, “Parking space? On TOP of excused absences? What’s he after, the Holy Grail?”

“Hey, I wouldn’t even NEED a spot in the non-09’er lot if you weren’t always messing with my car.” She points an accusing finger–he curls a hand around it, tucks her arm through his so he can lead her into the ballroom. “How many days ago did you last slash my tires?”

“You tried to railroad me for credit card fraud!” He offers his most insincere smile to the greeter as Veronica hands over their ticket. “Even though, as it happens, I was the wounded party.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, intently scanning the room and all the gin-chugging career educators in it. There’s a blue-and-gold banner hanging across one wall—National Society of Secondary School Principals—and a suspicious number of Pan-High-letter-jacket-wearing douchebags in attendance. Vinnie, clearly up to something, is off in a corner flattering the surprisingly-popular Pan Vice-Principal. Clemmons glowers at them both and sips Scotch at a nearby table.

“I would like to remind you,” Logan says, in an attempt to stir shit, since he didn’t wear this too-tight sweater and invite himself along because he actually wanted to detect, “that you effectively accused me of robbing my own moth—”

“Hey, Betty,” interrupts some bland, blonde fan of steroids in a Pan basketball jacket. Logan abandons attempts at argument to watch as V turns into an airhead before his eyes.

“Richie!” she coos, favoring the Ken doll with the practiced-pretty smile she only uses when faking, and wraps both arms around Logan’s bicep. “Ohmigosh, isn’t it the coolest thing ever? Coach Caputo is winning the big award!”

“Uh, yeah, Vice-Principal now.” Richie eyes the bicep grab in a way that makes Logan extract his arm and drape it around Veronica’s shoulders. “Say, I haven’t seen you around school in weeks, and I wanted to invite you to Massey’s party.”

“Oh, wow, yeah, I guess I forgot to tell you guys!” She twinkles ruefully up at Logan, earning his most sarcastic grin. “I’m going to Neptune now! My Dad said Pan was just too far to drive, which totally stinks, or at least it did until I met this guy. Logan this is Richie, Pan High’s star basketball player!”

She simpers, resting a cheek on Logan’s chest. He says, “Charmed, I’m sure,” in a tone that indicates he isn’t, while Richie blushes puerilely at the praise.

“Gosh, Betty, you know I wouldn’t be anything special without my team,” the guy says aw-shucks-ily; but Veronica’s gone on point like she smells crime, so his faux-humility impresses no one.

“Great, well, have fun!” She quicksteps Logan away, not bothering to remove his arm. “Did he look weirdly buff to you?” she asks as she frowningly scans the room. “I don’t remember him being so big a few months back–but then again, he always wears that stupid puffy jacket.”

“Well, BETTY, steroids are pretty quick-acting.” Logan tries but fails to figure out her game. “Luke took PED for like two months and started whipping his shirt off in the locker room, whereas before he’d change in the toilet stall and refuse to shower.”

“Steroids?” she asks, startled; then her nostrils flare as she meets his eyes, her own gaze going steely. “STEROIDS. So those improve basketball performance, too? Like, enough for a team that was mediocre last year to suddenly start wiping the floor with the likes of Wallace Fennel?”

“As far as I know,” Logan pulls her along to the drinks table and collects a Coke, “they improve EVERY kind of performance except the intimate stuff. Now, you mind explaining why you keep jerking your head around and jumping like you suddenly hear voices?”

“Earpiece.” She scowls at the soda in Logan’s hand, but shakes her head when he offers it. “I planted a bug on Vinnie while he was boasting in the lobby. He’s outside right now, putting some seriously-loathsome moves on an already-taken female doctor. Which, in light of the steroid angle makes me AWFULLY suspicious.”

Logan’s attention is diverted by the smack of a service door against the wall. A tall, angular woman in blue, hair pulled back in a bun, strides directly across the room to the Pan VP and extracts him from his conversation. They talk quietly, with multiple looks towards the lawn from whence she came, and he pats her arm to comfort her, hand lingering. “Affair,” Logan pronounces, over a sip of soda–the woman’s about fifteen years younger, and as different from America’s Coach as it’s possible to be. “And, at a guess, recently harassed by your sketchy acquaintance.”

Veronica’s eyes narrow. She does another scan of the room, indicates Vinnie with a jerk of her head. Logan turns just in time to see him snap a photo of the covert couple and smirk, like a pickpocket who just nabbed diamonds.

“Thank God I always carry a spare SD card,” Veronica mutters, snapping open her purse and rooting around. “Did you get a good look at his camera, when he was smarming our direction? It’s the same kind you used to have, right?

“During the two weeks I was interested in photography?” Logan smiles, because mostly VERONICA was interested in photography, and he was interested in having real conversations. “Yeah, a Canon, although of course mine was nicer. As I recall, the memory card was housed in a compartment on the side…it popped open with the press of a button.”

“So you know how to swap this out.” She slaps the SIM in his palm, eyes glittering. “I’ll distract Vinnie, you get the evidence. And sneak even more than normal while you do it–that guy’s smarter than he looks.”

“Well, he’d have to be.” Logan sets his drink down in a potted plant. “But don’t worry, snookums. As I keep trying to show you, I’ve got magic hands.”

She rolls her eyes, he bobs his brows. They follow Vinnie at a saunter when he wanders out of the ballroom.

**XXXXX**

The night air is balmy, the birds are rustling in the trees, and Vinnie Van Lowe just made himself a cool ten grand. Times are good, he reflects to himself, as he reviews the incriminating evidence linking his mark to the scrip supplier, then locates his phone.

Hitting speed dial three, Vinnie leans against a tree on the posh Neptune Grand lawn; waits for the Fitzpatrick’s Grand Poobah to finish his Wild Irish Rose and pick up. “Liam, my friend,” he says, when his erstwhile employer answers with ‘this better be good’. “Excellent news–I’ve got snaps AND audio.” He pats the mini-recorder in his jacket pocket. “Pics from this afternoon of Doc Whittaker absconding with drugs from the hospital, then doing the hand-off to Caputo. And pics of him tonight distributing to the team. Looks like they’re pushing Adderall to the honors society, not just steroids…a business model you might consider. Oh, and apparently the two of them are banging. So that’s your blackmail angle, should Caputo threaten to expose your copycat Neptune High operation. I doubt his wife and kids would approve.”

“So what are you waiting for?” Liam asks, after shouting something that makes the River Stix erupt in laughter. “Get your ass over here. When my money’s secure, you’ll earn yours.”

“Roger Dodger, over and out.” Vinnie hangs up and smiles. Life is sweet, cash is sweeter, and keeping the FitzP’s off his back and his business open one more year is the sweetest bit of all.

He begins the saunter back to his Corolla, debating whether to stop for a celebratory drink, only to be intercepted by Keith Mars’ sassy offspring and her latest deep-pocketed boy toy. She smirks at him and he goes on defense; since she started her amateur detecting-on-the side last summer, she’s been an inconveniently persistent gnat. And in the properly ordered way of things, no one gets to hover and bite but Vinnie.

“Twice in one night!” he says, hands on hips, as Mars faces him down front-and-center. The boyfriend lurks off to one side, looking buff and somehow shady. “Gotta tell you, VM, if you keep seeking me out in such friendly fashion, I’ll have to assume you want a job.”

“Ick,” she says, pleasantly, cocking her head. “I’d rather clean toilets at the bus station. And speaking of filth…guess you dug up all you wanted this evening, since you’re ready to split.”

Vinnie shrugs, suppressing a feeling of superiority, because if she hasn’t figured out his game by now, she’s not gonna. “Things to do, places to be,” he says. “You know how it goes, when your professional services are in demand. Or, considering you work for Keith, maybe you don’t.”

“Just remember to take the lens cap off before framing your incriminating shot.” She leans in to tug his camera strap and sneer more effectively. “Just a little procedure tip, from the selective-but-effective contingent.”

This provokes a laugh, because bingo. Vinnie runs two fingers down the strap until he locates the bug, and removes it with a head shake and tsk. “Now, now,” he chides, handing it back to her, amused by the pissed-off look this engenders. “Lesson number one, from a prospective employer to an enterprising newbie—never con a con. I wrote the book on these tricks, while you and your Barbies were still dancing to Ace of Base, kiddo.”

“Shucks,” she says, with an elaborately unconcerned shrug, drawing Teen Dream back from his brood-and-lean with a pointed look. “Can’t blame a girl for giving sabotage her best shot.”

She spins, ponytail bouncing, and marches back into the hotel, the kid Vinnie swears he’s seen somewhere sauntering, hands in pockets, after. Vinnie shakes his head, wondering if he should warn Keith to keep a better eye on her–then dismissing the idea, since it’s not like Keith would listen. And if little Veronica wants to shack up in a hotel suite with some Black-Amex-having trust-fund-baby, enjoying bubble baths built for two, what business is it of his, anyhow?

He runs a hand over his camera, aka his insurance policy, as he resumes his trek towards the car. Frowns as he notes the door housing the SIM card hangs just slightly ajar. Stops in his tracks to view the vital photos one more time.

They’ve all been replaced by pictures of kittens.

Muttering a steady stream of curse words under his breath, he pats the reassuring square of the mini-recorder in his pocket; reaches in, and withdraws a pack of Juicy Fruit. Then turns, alerted by a roar of outrage through the ballroom’s cracked-open security door, and breaks into a run.

When he makes it inside, Van Clemmons—bane of his teenage years, and he THOUGHT, reluctant patsy—is up on stage, presiding over the slide show that should be narrated by this year’s winner. Caputo’s in the audience, red-faced and restrained by two burly guards. And onscreen is Vinnie’s favorite shot of the day; Caputo, handing a packet of hypodermics to a kid who should be fishing shoeless in Mayberry. In the background, his recorded audio plays, wherein Whittaker begs Caputo to run away with her, and questions why the guy cares about metrics and sports scores.

“I was alerted to this problem by a pair of concerned students,” Clemmons intones, looking around in vain for Mars and her beau, “who provided evidence that the recent drug arrests near Neptune High area were an attempt by a local gang to infiltrate my school. The authorities have, of course, been notified. But in the process of investigating, I stumbled across evidence that my colleague’s academic and intramural gains of the last year were less than…legitimate. I had hoped to discuss the issue privately with the NASSP’s board. But in light of this material somehow making it into the presentation…well, all of you were owed an explanation. Our primary purpose, as always, must be to protect and educate the young people in our care.”

_And MY primary purpose is to get on the next plane bound for Florida_ , Vinnie thinks, easing quietly from the room as the hero of the day accepts his accolades.  _Maybe come back in a few months, once all the relevant Fitzpatricks are in jail. Maybe stay gone a while, get some sun, flourish in an environment innately suited to my skillset._

He creeps quietly across the lawn towards the parking garage, locating the keys Mars miraculously didn’t hoist. Jerks in startlement as a moan issues from a nearby clump of bushes.

Curiosity is his besetting sin; so he pauses and peeps long enough to confirm the moaner is, in fact, Mars, inspired by the kid he’s beginning to suspect is that Echolls spawn. They’re plastered up against the hotel wall, writhing; he’s kissing her like he depends on her mouth for oxygen. She’s got her hands up under his fancy green sweater and she’s climbed him like a tree.

Vinnie sighs, reflecting that it’s been too long since he and Debra called it quits—maybe it’s time to grow that mustache back for real, and re-bestow his charms on the denizens of the dating game. Florida’s a good arena…beaches, bikinis, ever-churning margarita machines. He makes a note to buy some new Hawaiian shirts when he lands. The bounce returns to his step as he heads for his getaway vehicle, and the sweet, sweet freedom that beckons.


End file.
